His job: scrubbing toilets in the Shibuya ward. He takes it seriously. He carries a kit of specialized tools. He uses a mirror on a stick to check under the rim. He smiles at the cherry blossoms reflected in a chrome urinal.
Wenders doesn't just play these songs; he lets them wash over Hirayama’s face. Yakusho’s performance happens almost entirely in micro-expressions—the slight upturn of a lip when “Pale Blue Eyes” comes on, the distant stare during “House of the Rising Sun.” I watched Perfect Days on a Tuesday night after a terrible day at work. My brain was a browser with 47 tabs open. For the first twenty minutes, I was restless. Nothing is happening.
That is the magic of Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days . It doesn’t just tell you to stop and smell the roses. It hands you a mop, points to a dirty floor, and whispers: Here is your cathedral. Now get to work.
The film doesn't romanticize poverty or labor. Hirayama has a choice. He could be a corporate drone. He chooses instead to be a custodian of small spaces, finding dignity in doing one thing perfectly. Be warned: There is a moment near the end of this film—involving a shadow, a hug, and a sunrise—that will break you open. I won’t spoil it. But I will say that Kōji Yakusho’s face, caught between a smile and a sob as Lou Reed sings “I’m gonna be your perfect day,” is one of the greatest acting moments of the decade.